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The urge and need now and then to confide our innermost fears and hopes is great in every human being. Perhaps <&■■ much of what is called mother love is the confiding to one's mother of one's secret aspirations, fears, ambitions, and hopes. It includes the prideful account of one's successes — in school, among playmates, in one's profession. Unlucky is the person who does not have one trusted friend to whom he can unblushingly confide what he really feels. But there are a few qualifications to be made. They say that even with his trusted friend a self-reliant, cultured person will maintain a certain reserve, a reserve of good taste, and also of good sense. Before revealing any very intimate matter you might well ponder the wisdom of it. It would seem that no friend should ever know one's feelings and realities of guilt as fully, for example, as one's confessor. |
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